Musa had never worn a shirt that smelled like an iron. Lamin borrowed a kettle from the neighbor and pressed the fabric until it pretended to behave. The collar still rebelled, but Musa buttoned it anyway. Tonight wasn't about perfection. Tonight was about survival.
Clara's assistant had sent the details: Hilton Hotel, conference hall, 4 p.m. Dress code: smart. Payment wired in advance. A rental shop trusted him with a real camera once he showed proof of funds. Holding it, Musa felt like he'd borrowed a pair of wings.
When he arrived, the lobby's air was cooler than the outside world, perfumed with something too expensive to have a name. Marble floors reflected shoes that never knew dust. Musa's hands sweated against the camera strap, but he moved like he belonged, looking for light, for angles, for the truth Clara said she wanted.
Her assistant Sophie found him. "Ms. Bennett asked for moments, not staged poses," she said briskly. "You see things. That's why you're here. Don't disappoint her."
Musa nodded, grateful for the clarity. He shot quietly: women fixing microphones, volunteers sharing nervous laughter, details no one else noticed. His lens found honesty, and honesty rewarded him with beauty.
Then Clara arrived.
She wore a white suit that made the whole room dimmer. Her presence turned conversations toward her like iron to a magnet. Musa raised his camera just as she glanced across the room. For a heartbeat, their eyes met. He clicked. The picture caught her—powerful, calm, but with the faintest tremor in her hand. A truth no headline could frame.
Later, during the networking session, a man in a tailored jacket approached. His smile was sharp, his cologne sharper. Musa recognized him from the DMs: @RealKarafa.
"Phone boy," he said softly. "Enjoying your charity tour?"
Musa kept his lens steady. "I'm here because I was hired."
Karafa smirked. "You're here because she's kind. Don't mistake kindness for a future. Clara Bennett belongs to a world you can't afford."
Musa wanted to reply, but Sophie's voice saved him. "Ms. Bennett needs you near the back," she called. Karafa's smirk lingered as Musa walked away.
Behind the stage, Clara was waiting. Up close, she was even more human—eyes alert but tired, shoulders briefly slouched. "You're good at being invisible," she murmured, watching him adjust the lens.
"I only catch what is already there," Musa said.
Her lips curved. "Then catch this night. It matters."
He did. Shot after shot, he captured women sharing courage, founders wiping nervous tears, Clara listening as if every word deserved a crown. For once, Musa forgot his fear. He was simply a man with a camera and a city inside his eye.
The night might have ended well—if not for the call.
Halfway through the evening, Sophie ushered Clara to a side corridor where a phone was waiting. A screen flickered on, revealing the face of Margaret Bennett herself—flawless hair, flawless posture, eyes that reduced rooms to size.
"Clara," she said, voice cool and final. "I've seen tonight's pictures. One of them shows you with… someone. Who is he?"
Clara hesitated. Her glance flicked to Musa, who stood frozen a few steps away.
"He's the photographer I hired," Clara said evenly. "His name is Musa."
Margaret's lips thinned, a smile without warmth. "Then arrange a meeting. Tomorrow, eleven a.m. sharp. If he's to be in your story, I want to read the man before the world does."
The line went dead.
Clara exhaled, half-apology, half-warning. "I'm sorry," she said quietly. "My mother doesn't knock. She owns the doors."
Musa's chest tightened, the camera suddenly heavier. Tomorrow at eleven, he would stand before Margaret Bennett—the billionaire mother who believed empires, not poor men, deserved her daughter.
— End of Chapter 2 —